‘I gained weight and I like it’

There are some things I stopped wearing when my belly stopped being flat. Tight dresses, for one. I used to have a skintight gray knit dress that I thought was the hottest thing in the world. I gave it away when I gained weight.

I hit my heaviest weight ever (again) back in November and I’m still there. Which kinda surprised me the last time I weighed myself. I thought I’d slip back. I thought I’d return to normal. Y’know, to my real body.

I think this might be normal, guys.

And the good news is, there’s a chance I’m curvy now! At least a little. I think I might be. Even my boobs are contributing, in the gradual, half-hearted manner in which I used to do my laundry after my mom reminded me ten times.

I didn’t know until I put on this incredibly tight dress covered in rabbits. And then it turned out that I am a (potential?) bombshell. It was like BAM BAM BAM!

BOOBS BELLY BUTT!

My first thought, which came out high and squeaky with shock, was “Wait– really? Nice!”

This is all wrong.

I am not supposed to like being at my heaviest weight. I am supposed to want to shed those pounds ASAP!! Girl, get some self control! I am supposed to be panicking. I am supposed to be dreading summer and calculating how many hours per day I should spend on the treadmill, starting NOW, right after I eat this chocolate croissant and its adorable twin and their slightly smaller cousin who would’ve been lonely otherwise. I am supposed to feel disappointed in myself. I am supposed to have failed.

But this curvy body feels like a friggin’ celebration.

“Wait for it,” I told my husband, pulling the rabbit dress on in the bedroom while he tested his bloodsugar (diabetes: it always has to get in on the action) in the kitchen.

“Whoa,” he said, when I came out. “Wow. Your body is amazing. Wow.” (The fact that Bear is really articulate makes this an even bigger compliment.)

I’m not sure how I missed this. I kept interpreting it wrong. I kept thinking “gross” instead of “gorgeous.” Those silly G words that end in S. I watched my arm spread along the back of the couch. Was that a dimple, swimming in the fat? Should I kill myself now, or after the third croissant?

“Angelina’s arms are skeletal,” said my friend, who had actually seen the star in person. “She looks like she might be sick. It looks unhealthy.”

First my brain went, “I wish mine were more like that.” Then I said, “That’s really sad.”

I didn’t want to go shopping. I thought, “I can never wear a sleeveless shirt again. Ever. This is the end of sleeveless shirts.”

Kate rocking her rabbit dress

I thought, “I can never wear a strapless dress again. Ever. This is the end of an era.”

I thought, “Maybe I should grow my hair long again, because only skinny people look good with short hair. There’s some kind of law.”

I thought, “Every single one of my friends is ten times hotter than me.”

Yesterday, another girl asked my friend if she was a model. I stood there and smiled and nodded along. Yes, she does have the bone structure for it.

I will never be asked that question.

I will never have a face for TV. Or a body for a billboard. If I am ever very famous and on the cover of a magazine just because they have to put me there, they will go crazy with the photoshop, in an effort to make me look the way beautiful women are supposed to look and less like the way I actually look. Because the way I actually look is too confusing for popular consumption.

But god, I like this body right now.

I think I might be high on something. Croissants? Whatever’s in diet Dr. Pepper? Life?